


The Weekend (Sleep Spent)

by sakurashakedown



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakurashakedown/pseuds/sakurashakedown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Monday morning Frank decides to accept the truth.</i> Frank wakes up one day and realizes his life has spiraled wildly out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Not Expel The Truth

 

 

I can't expel the truth  
It’s much more than I thought I could do  
And with time, my worth will stain  
And split your heart from my name  
So drive away your mouth from my ears  
And waste a day so I can think clearly  
And what’s left to wait for here  
As my hands sleep, spent this last year  
Choking the bottle’s neck  
That pulled you from my bed

 

 

Sleep Spent - Death Cab for Cutie

 

\------<>\------

Monday morning Frank decides to accept the truth.

This is the Monday morning after a weekend-long party binge when Frank wakes up in bed - fully clothed - next to Adam Lazzara - also fully clothed - and trips over Gabe Saporta - who’s only half dressed - on his way to the bathroom where he finds Gerard - who’s missing his shoes - passed out on the floor next to the toilet with vomit on his shirt.

It’s not a pretty sight; Gerard’s got a yellow line of puke running down the side of his mouth and little chucks of whatever clinging to the split ends of his matte black hair that’s plastered across his face. It’s enough to shock Frank - as much as he can be shocked with the headache that’s splitting his head open and clouding reality. It makes him wonder how it all got this far, but he doesn’t have time to wonder long before the world spins and his stomach hurls and he’s on his knees trying to get it all in the toilet.

He hears Gerard moan on the floor over the sounds of his heaving and stomach contents splashing in the toilet water. When he’s done - for now at least - he rests his head on the cool porcelain rim and looks at Gerard. He’s missing his jacket and Frank can see the faded crisscross lines on his arms from long ago, before he met Frank, before he started hanging with Gabe, back when he had a boyfriend that used to smack him around and he wanted to die. Frank had learned the story of those scars slowly and over time and in bits and pieces; first over beers, then over shots, then over mirrored table tops, and finally in messy beds, but that’s not what he's paying attention to. What’s holding his attention in iron fists are the little purple-and-red bruises dotting his arm.

These are new. And even though sometimes Frank can’t remember where he is or if he’s eaten, he can always remember every detail of Gerard - the burst blood vessel under his eye, the freckle on his temple, the birthmark on his thigh - and these tracks littering his arm are recent.

Frank can feel a wave of disgust come over him and all the blood drain from his face and it makes him want to vomit again. Instinctually he checks his own arms, because whatever Gerard does Frank does and sometimes Frank can only remember where he's been by looking at Gerard’s shoes; mud means marijuana near the marshes, grass blades and flower petals mean pills in the park, sand means shots on the shore, and clean shoes mean cocaine in a club. With his head splitting open, he looks at his arms and he’s clean, but he still wants to cry because if Gerard’s using needles - Gerard who’s so afraid of needles he gets faint just from looking at them - then it means he’s got to accept the truth - the cold hard truth he’s tried so hard all these months not to realize.

Gerard moans on the floor and rolls over onto his back, his dirty black band shirt rising up, revealing the unblemished skin there and Frank finally fesses up to the severity of his situation. He finally acknowledges his lifestyle for what it is.

It’s Monday morning and Frank Iero accepts the truth.

 

 

\---<>\---

 

 

It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Frank tells Gerard what he’s thinking.

It’s sunny and warm and they’re sitting in the park taking in the fresh air and sunshine. The sky is a perfect, cloudless blue. Wednesday afternoons are the perfect time for telling what you’re thinking, Frank decides. They’ve had Monday and Tuesday to recover and they’re not itching for the weekend yet like how they get on Thursdays. Gerard is worse about wanting the weekend than Frank; he gets restless and irritable and sometimes he can’t sleep and so he keeps Frank awake all night, telling him high school horror stories, traumatic teenage tales, and chilling childhood chronicles. Then in the morning it’s Friday and Gabe is pulling up outside their apartment with Adam, and Frank doesn’t know if he dreamed Gerard was telling him these things or not. He never gets the chance to ask though, because Adam always enters their kitchen, brown eyes already dilated, and places a little pink or pale pill on Gerard’s tongue and all Frank can think about it is how sometimes he wants to hit Adam for being so close to his boyfriend.

It’s beautiful outside and they’re sitting in the grass under a tree and Gerard is scratching his arm. Frank hates to see it. It was bad enough seeing the silver scars, but at least those were remnants of a past life and they held within them some kind of hope - Gerard could get through things, get better - but these purple track mark bruises are recent ugly reminders of their present and how revolting it is.

Frank wastes no time; he just comes out and says it, “Gerard. I want to get clean.”

At first he doesn’t think Gerard’s heard him because he’s just staring into space, scratching his arm, but then Gerard laughs a little nervous laugh, not even really a laugh at all, just a sad little _Heh_ and says, “Why?”

That hurts Frank almost as much as seeing the track marks on Gerard’s arms. That means he’s in deep, because he can’t even seem to fathom why Frank would _want_ to be clean.

“Because,” Frank sputters, not really knowing what to say. Gerard just looks at him, waiting for him to go on. His eyes are green in the sunlight and he’s got his messy, shoulder length black hair tucked behind his ears instead of falling in his face, so every time Frank looks at him, he realizes how really beautiful Gerard is. “Because…I…want to.” He thinks. “I’m throwing my life away, Gerard. _We_ are throwing our lives away.”

Gerard tilts his head to one side and starts back scratching his arm again, leaving red scratch marks that only make it look worse and makes Frank’s skin crawl. Gerard’s sitting cross-legged and he’s got a hole in the knee of his jeans, his boney white knee cap exposed.

Gerard says, “But I like Gabe and Adam.”

“You do not like Gabe and Adam,” Frank says, a little too harshly and Gerard flinches a little and Frank has to remind himself to be gentle, because Gerard always gets nervous when Frank gets mad. Force of habit. A Pavlovian response. Frank is certain that, somewhere deep inside, Gerard is still waiting for Frank to hit him one day.

Frank takes a deep breath, goes on. “You do not like Gabe and Adam. You can’t. You only see them on the weekends and most of the time you’re too drugged out to know what’s going on. I know. _I’m the same way_.”

Gerard is biting his bottom lip, nervous. “Can I think about it, Frankie? _Please_? I’ve been through withdrawal before; I’m not strong enough to do it again.” The way he says it, all desperate and sad, reminds Frank of a young prostitute that tried to proposition him one night, a long time ago, when Frank had real friends and the worst things he did were drink too much and hit a joint now and then. This prostitute, she couldn't have been more than sixteen, and she followed Frank and Pete for, like, a block, her price dropping lower and lower, her voice getting sadder and sadder.

Frank looks at Gerard and he wants to cry again, because Gerard just keeps breaking his heart. He says, voice clear and steady, “Think about it. It’ll be good for us,” and Gerard says he’s hungry so they get up to go get food.

 

 

\---<>\---

 

 

It’s Thursday night and Frank _really_ wants to sleep, but Gerard is up and telling him stories again. It’s dark in their bedroom and you can hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen and the occasional car zooming past in the night. Frank is on his back, dozing off and Gerard is beside him, lying on his stomach, upper body propped up with his elbows. He’s playing with his hands, twisting the sheets and pulling at his pillow case.

“I can’t get sober, Frankie,” he sobs, his voice pained and pathetic. His jet black hair, made even blacker by the night, is falling in his moon white face that’s so pale Frank can see it in the dark. “I’m sorry, Frank, I can’t.” Gerard covers his face with his hands and Frank can't tell if he’s crying or just trying to block out his anxiety.

Exhausted, Frank rubs Gerard’s shoulder and says drowsily, “Baby, you’ll be fine.”

“I _won’t_ ,” Gerard moans through his hands, through his hair. “I’ll fuck up. I fuck up _everything_.” Gerard’s voice cracks and he says, “I was eight and every time I would fuck up he’d make me - I’d have to -” Gerard is crying now and Frank is scared and exhausted, heart pounding in his ears as Gerard finger paints another nightmare into Frank’s mind. It’s a typical Thursday night. “And if I - if I didn’t swallow - I’d - he’d just k-k-keep h-hitting me.”

As always, Frank sits up just as Gerard collapses, crying into his pillow. When he cries, his sobs shake his whole body and all Frank can do is stroke his hair until he falls asleep and tell him he loves him and feel his own heart break as he wonders, _Baby, why didn’t anyone protect you?_

And against all better judgment, he whispers, “Don’t worry, hon, it’s the weekend.”

 

 

\---<>\---

 

 

It’s Friday morning and when Frank wakes up, Gerard is already out of bed and embracing the day. Gerard’s Thursday night confessional is already erased from his memory - or buried down deep - and it’s such a contrast that, as usual, Frank can’t remember if he dreamed it or not.

This is their lives on Friday.

Adam and Gabe pull up and pop in. As always, Gabe walks in and looks around like he’s never seen the place before, inquires about the chaise lounge sitting in Frank’s living room (because he wants a new one), comments on the _A Clockwork Orange_ movie poster hanging in the kitchen (that is a _good_ movie!) and asks Frank if he likes living near the park (because he’s getting tired of downtown and is thinking of moving). Frank knows enough by now, though to know that Gabe will keep his same chaise lounge and will probably never leave downtown, still, he entertains his ideas anyway, because it’s Friday morning and Frank is itching bad for the weekend.

In the kitchen, Frank can see Gerard laughing at something Adam just said. He tosses his head back and laughs his musical, dorky school girl laugh. Frank watches Gerard lean back against the counter, gripping the counter edge with his hands. He tilts his head back, black hair falling out of his face and opens his mouth while Adam, trying not to giggle, drops a pill down Frank’s boyfriend’s throat.

It’s Friday morning and, as usual, Frank is jealous and restless and is ready to Start the Weekend.

 

 

\---<>\---

 

 

Friday afternoon they meet up with Gabe’s dealer outside Gabe’s place. Gabe’s place is this new modern condominium complex downtown. Gabe’s condo is way up on the tenth floor so he can look down at the city and its people through his floor to ceiling windows and it’s completely furnished with that sort of stainless steel, ultra-modern, minimalist bachelor pad furniture that looks cold and uninviting unless there’s a party going on. Gabe can afford to live in his condo on the tenth floor and look down at the world below him because, sort of like Frank, Gabe is a trust fund baby, except Gabe’s money is endless - his dad owns some crazy corporation - and Frank’s isn’t and one day it will run out unless he gets his shit together.

Frank doesn’t know about Adam. All he knows is that Adam is some Southern state refugee and lives downtown and hangs out in art circles when it isn’t the weekend. Frank asked Gerard about him once - it was a Wednesday - and Gerard got embarrassed and mumbled, “I don’t know. He sings or something,” and that pretty much sums up their relationship with these people. I don’t know who you are or what you do, but let’s hang out.

They pass around a joint and Frank watches Gabe cut up some lines and remembers when he first started hanging with Gabe and Adam. Gerard was with them then. Frank was twenty-two and fresh out of college. It was early summer and he was doing the club circuit with Pete Wentz, budding alcoholic and playboy extraordinaire. They’d met sophomore year in college and bonded over shots and music.

Pete was drunk and fawning over this chubby blonde kid with glasses and Frank was just kind of awkwardly standing there watching the scene play out when, all of a sudden, this angel walks in. The first time Frank sees Gerard, Frank’s tipsy and Gerard’s eyes are wide and dilated, but Frank will swear up and down that it was love at first sight.

It was a Saturday.

Since Gabe knew Pete and Pete loved being surrounded by people he knew, they all spent the evening together. That whole night, all Frank could do was stare into Gerard’s kohl-rimmed eyes and watch him blush red and laugh out loud every time Frank called him beautiful.

That was over a year and a half ago. Frank can’t remember the exact moment when he went from sharing beer and joints with Pete to doing cocaine with Gabe and blacking out whole weekends and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like any of it. He doesn’t like how he’s spent every weekend for nearing two years with Gabe and Adam and still doesn’t feel like he knows them. He doesn’t like how he feels on Friday mornings and he doesn’t like how Wednesdays are the only days when he feels well enough to get his thoughts together. He _hates_ looking at Gerard’s arms.

Frank thinks about how worthless he’s become and how fucked up Gerard’s getting and all the money he’s wasted when he could’ve been starting a business or something and it makes him angry. Still, he watches Gabe snort up a line off his mirrored coffee table with a sick sort of envy and he knows that if he doesn’t get out now, he’ll get swept away with the tide and washed ashore Monday morning, passed out on someone’s bed or couch or bathroom floor.

So Frank makes his move. He stubs out his cigarette violently in Gabe’s crystal ashtray and stands up. Gerard, sitting beside Frank and leaned over Adam’s shoulder, watching him intently as he does his lines, immediately snatches his attention away from the powder on the table and focuses it all on Frank, standing over him. Gerard’s eyes, gold in Gabe’s living room, are wide and confused and Frank can just see the giant exclamation mark looming over his head, because _this is not how this is supposed to go down_. Frank is supposed to be sitting on the floor next to Gerard with his hand on his knee, not getting up to walk out.

Frank looks at Gabe leaned back against the couch with his eyes closed, a cigarette dangling from his fingers and Adam sniffing and pinching the bridge of his nose and he knows he won’t be missed, so he doesn’t even bother with goodbyes, just turns around to leave. Gerard is instantly on his heels, following in behind him so close, he’s stumbling and Frank can feel his breath on his neck, because whatever Frank does, Gerard does and Frank is just hoping that Gerard will just follow him out without making a scene.

“ _Frankie_!” Gerard grabs his arm and spins him around just as he’s crossing the threshold. “What are you doing? You can’t leave now - it’s Friday. I don’t want to go home yet.” Gerard is talking fast and desperately, gold eyes dripping with apprehension and Frank thinks Gerard sounds exactly like the lush he is.

He tugs his arm away - a little too fast - and Gerard flinches just a bit before trying to grab his arm back. “I’m leaving,” Frank says, voice solid. He pulls his arm away again and starts walking down the carpeted hall towards the elevators. When he doesn’t feel Gerard behind him, he stops and turns around and looks at Gerard wringing his hands outside Gabe’s doorway. “ _Come on_ ” Frank says and he doesn’t know if it’s a command or a plea.

Gerard just stands there, shuffling his feet and wringing his hands, his hair falling in his face, and says, “I don’t want too,” and there’s something hard in the way he says it. And Frank just looks at him. And Gerard just looks at the floor. And, for a minute, Frank thinks about grabbing Gerard and dragging him down the hallway, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just turns around and keeps walking. He hasn’t gotten his fix yet and it’s making his blood itch and he can’t think straight with itchy blood.

His first thought is that he’ll just go home, but there’s a bar across the street and if Frank can’t have powder, he thinks he’ll just have a drink instead. He ends up having a bunch of drinks and has to get the bartender to call him a cab and dig through his wallet to find his address, because he suddenly can’t remember exactly where he lives. When he gets home, he passes out on his couch and, in the end, it feels just like a Friday.


	2. To Split A Heart From A Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Saturday, Frank’s head is splitting open, his brain swelling up and oozing red and hot out of his skull, or at least that’s what it feels like. ___Frank wakes up one day and realizes his life has spiraled wildly out of control.

 

  
Saturday, Frank’s head is splitting open, his brain swelling up and oozing red and hot out of his skull, or at least that’s what it feels like; and every time he tries to move or think or breathe, the world spins violently and suddenly and he has to close his eyes and ride it out.

 

  
\---<>\---

 

  
  
Sunday, he’s still on the couch, but he manages to move enough to get his phone out of his pocket. When he calls Pete - because Pete knows all about these situations, as many times as he’s graced rehab programs with his presence - another voice answers and he knows it’s Patrick, the chubby blonde kid Pete picked up at the club forever ago, the one who’d walked into Pete’s life and, surprisingly, didn’t walk out.  
  
Frank can’t remember what he said or what Patrick said back, but an hour later - two hours? Three? Thirty minutes? A year? He can’t tell - Pete comes bursting through his unlocked door with Patrick trailing behind him. Pete comes and sits right beside Frank lying feverish and still on the couch, crosses one leg over the other, leans back, and lights a cigarette. With Patrick shuffling around in the kitchen, Pete takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows out a cloud of smoke and says, “You’re an idiot, Frank. Everyone knows you can’t quit cold turkey. You’ve gotta take your time. Have a drink, smoke a joint, pop a pill every now then.” Pete checks his cell phone real quick, shoves it back in his jacket pocket, continues, “I’ve been getting sober for two years now. I used to wake up and take four shots and now I just have one. Slow, Iero, that’s the only way to do it.”  
  
Pete takes another drag from his cigarette and Frank just lays there, semi-conscious.  
  
Pete’s black hair is perfectly styled and swooping in front of his eyes, giving him that slightly androgynous, sexy-rebel look that’s so popular nowadays. He looks around, puffing smoke, and says, “That’s a sweet chaise lounge. Where’d you get it? I’ve been thinking of getting one, only I don’t know where I’d put it. My apartment is too small. Me and Patrick are thinking of moving out of midtown. Is living near the park nice?”  
  
Frank knows, even semi-conscious, that Pete’s condo is bigger than Gabe’s and that, while Pete will probably actually go out and buy a chaise lounge, he will probably never leave midtown.  
  
Patrick comes in from the kitchen then and brushes the hair out of Frank’s face, red and sweaty, with his cool hands that are as smooth and white as ivory. He says, sympathetically, “Frank, you’ve gotta check yourself in somewhere. You can die from withdrawal.”  
  
Frank doesn’t say anything, but Pete, who doesn’t like to talk so much as he likes hearing himself talk, fills in for him and says, “I told you, Iero. You’ve got to take it slow.” He gets up and digs through his wallet. “I don’t know what you and Gabe have been doing, but here -” he hands Frank a little white pill and, when Frank doesn’t reach out and take it, just shoves it into his mouth. Patrick watches with the mild disapproval of one who is used to witnessing debauchery and, in fact, expects it, “-it’s a valium,” Pete continues, proudly, “my doctor gives them to me all the time. They’re helpful little guys. Make coming down a lot easier. I wouldn’t have dropped down to my one-shot mornings without them.”  
  
Patrick just shakes his head, his arms crossed, and says, “We’ll come back and check on you tomorrow. If you get any worse, you’re staying with us.” Patrick looks around the room then and says, suddenly, a little exclamation mark beeping on over his head, “Where’s Gerard?”

 

  
  
\---<>\---

 

  
  
Gerard doesn’t materialize until Monday afternoon. The light is coming in orange through the curtains, saturating all the colors in the room and making the shadows dark and deep. Frank had been just well enough that morning to move himself into the bedroom with the combined efforts of Pete and Patrick - mostly Patrick, with a slew of encouraging words from Pete. They had come over earlier and, afterwards, Patrick had spent all morning cooking soup and trying to convince him to go into rehab and Pete had spent all morning smoking cigarettes, feeding him valium and telling him not to bother.  
  
“Just have a Jack Daniels,” Pete had said, lounging next to Frank on the bed. He had his tie loosened and his converses kicked off, his painted on skinny jeans showing off the curves of his legs, which, if Pete had to decide, were probably his third favorite feature after his perfectly coiffed hair and tawny eyes. He’d been flipping through one of Gerard’s art magazines that’d been lying on the bedside table, Frank sweating buckets next to him, wrapped tight under the sheets. “Those places never work anyway,” he’d confided, flipping a page, “You’d do just as good on your own.”  
  
And maybe hidden underneath Pete’s words and casual tone, there was disappointment, but whether it was disappointment at loosing a drinking buddy or disappointment in the world or himself or disappointment at all, Frank would never know; the headache and fever pulsating into his dreams, Frank had fallen asleep to sound of Pete’s voice, familiar and far away, and the dry sound of flipping pages.  
  
The lights in Frank’s bedroom were dimmed so that Frank wouldn’t have to suffer the lighting and, when Gerard stumbled in in the afternoon, they were still on. Frank was just dozing off again when Gerard climbed in bed, fully clothed, and nuzzled his face into the back of his neck, his skin sweaty, long dirty hair tickling the back of Frank’s neck. He smelled exactly like everywhere he’d been and it made Frank’s head hurt more and savagely crave what he’d been missing out on.

 

  
  
\---<>\---

 

  
  
Tuesday morning Frank feels a _little_ better and has to wonder if the worst is over or if it’s just the Valium Pete was feeding him blocking out the friction.  
  
They usually spend Tuesday mornings in bed and this week is no exception except this time, when Gerard starts sucking on Frank’s neck, it drives him wild, but in a bad way. Usually Tuesday mornings start with Gerard sucking on Frank’s neck and end with Frank and Gerard cumming in unison, but today, Frank is achy and miserable and Gerard smells and, when Gerard starts flicking his tongue against Frank’s throat, Frank gets fed up, musters his strength, and pushes him away. He turns over, world spinning with him, head pounding and says, with more bitterness in his voice than he intended, “Go take a shower.”  
  
He can feel waves of hurt roll off of Gerard. Still, Gerard goes and showers and when he comes back, fresh and dripping wet, Frank thinks he looks more content than he should be. He climbs onto the bed with just a towel on and the towel is almost the same color as his skin. He’s smiling, showing his little pointy off-white teeth, his eyes a clear hazel in the bright morning light of the room. He leans over Frank with his ebony hair dripping little drops of water all over the place and dangles something above Frank’s head. Frank doesn’t look at whatever it is, instead he looks at Gerard’s arm, at the old scabby tracks from last week and the fresh purple ones from this weekend, polka-dotting the white skin there and showing up so vibrantly that Frank hardly notices the angry silver zebra stripe scars that zigzag beneath the bruises.  
  
“I brought you a party favor,” Gerard trills and his voice is melodic and cheerful, but there’s this black oily undercurrent to his words that makes Frank think of a high school slut sauntering up to a teacher after class to “discuss” grades. Frank brings his eyes to whatever it is Gerard’s holding above his head - even this tiny movement hurts - and, if there was ever a time Frank wanted to hit Gerard, it’s right now.  
  
There’s this overwhelming gravitational pull Frank feels towards the white powder in the bag above his head - the same sort of gravitational pull Frank always feels towards Gerard - and he hates it.  
  
“Frank?” Gerard starts to whine when Frank doesn’t react, because if there was ever a time Gerard felt like he was losing Frank, it’s now.  
  
Frank sits up and Gerard scoots back and looks worried, his eyes getting big and round. The temptation from the bag, his four day headache, and his mixed feelings towards Gerard right now are threatening to make Frank explode. He can feel the pressure welling up inside of him and, just when he’s about to blow his top and start yelling something he doesn’t really mean, he hears the door open - he still hasn’t locked it yet - and Pete call out, “We’re home!”  
  
Frank looks at Gerard and glares at him without even noticing it and Gerard just sits there with his wet hair, wide eyes, and parted lips looking like a kicked puppy.

 

  
\---<>\---

 

  
  
Frank doesn’t tell Patrick about Gerard bringing party favors. He definitely doesn’t tell Pete because, drug advocate though he may be, Pete has never really cared much for Gerard (you’re classier than Gabe, Frank, you can do much better than some tortured art school gutter rat) and there is no doubt in Frank’s mind that Pete will just snatch up this bad situation, twist it, and make it worse.  
  
So Frank doesn’t tell. They’ll just talk about it later, on Wednesday.

 

  
  
\---<>\---

 

  
  
Wednesday comes and Frank feels better today than he did yesterday - he’s sensing a trend here - and so he and Gerard move to the living and he tells Gerard point blank, no beating around the bush, that he’s done with drugs. Forever. And he’s done with Gabe and Adam. However, he isn’t done with Gerard and, if Gerard really loves him, he’ll man up and get clean too.  
  
Gerard is awkward and doesn’t know what to say. He plays with his shirt sleeves and stares at the fabric of the couch and bright blue edges of the throw blanket Frank’s wrapped up in, because he just isn’t ready to get clean. He’s not ready to give up this part of himself and Frank should know that. He’s been this way since he was, like, thirteen and first started drinking and he’s okay with that. His cocaine binges and candy-colored pills have never let him down like People have. They’ve always been right there, a steady constant, a calming presence. They make him forget about his step dad looming over him at night, and his ex-boyfriend giving him black eyes then letting his friends fuck him for change. They make him forget and Gerard, he’s just not ready to give all that up right now.  
  
What he wants is for Frank to understand, really _understand_ , but Frank’s so set on Gerard getting clean that he wonders if that’ll ever happen.  
  
Frank’s still waiting for him to say something and so Gerard says, slowly, just to make Frank happy, “Okay. I’ll _try_ ,” but he knows deep down that he won’t.

 

  
  
\---<>\---

 

  
  
Thursday night, neither Frank nor Gerard can sleep. Frank is wide awake because he’s been sleeping most of the past five days and Gerard is awake because it’s Thursday night and his bones are itching for the weekend and he hasn’t had a proper hit since Sunday so now all of his memories are creeping up on him, like shapes in the darkness.  
  
It’s Thursday Night Horror Story Time and this night, Frank is wide awake.  
  
But, this night, Gerard isn’t telling Frank horrible events from his life. He’s not telling Frank about getting molested or getting raped or beaten or picked on. Frank wonders if it’s because he’s awake and Gerard can only pour out the innermost depths of his soul when he’s sure Frank won’t be able to remember and bring it up later.  
  
Instead, tonight, Gerard tells Frank about The Time He Tried Getting Sober.  
  
“It was right after my ex kicked me out.” Gerard never tells Frank exactly who his ex is and that’s probably for the best because Frank would probably hunt him down and murder him. “I didn’t have anything. No clothes, no money. I stayed with a friend from art school, because I’d rather die on the street than go back to Belleville.” Belleville, that’s where Gerard’s from. Frank, on the other hand, isn’t really from anywhere. His dad lives in Trenton and his mom lives in Atlantic City and his grandmother lives in Newark, so Frank, he just kinda lived all over; a summer here, a school year there.  
  
Frank can’t help but marvel at how easy it is to focus and relate things now that he’s getting clean.  
  
“I couldn’t pay for drugs and I wanted to get clean - I really, really did - so I tried to quit.”  
  
Gerard, he lasted about four days before he gave in and got a friend to slip him some pills and loan him enough money for a line of coke. Gerard, all that week he’d black in and out of consciousness and he could barely move because the pain was so bad. He would sweat so much, the sheets would be soaked, and nose would bleed whenever he tried to sit up. It felt like dying, but the not the sort of numb, painless dying Gerard imagined for himself; it felt like pain and fear leading to pain and fear.  
  
“I don’t want to do that again, Frank,” he says, “I can’t.”  
  
“I’ll put you in a clinic then,” Frank says and he winces, because even with Pete’s valium and Patrick’s Advil in blood, his headache is still threatening to split his skull open. “We’ll go together.”  
  
Gerard looks Frank in the eyes when he says, “No.” His eyes are sad but his voice is hard and Frank wonders if Gerard has always been this mess of contrasts.  
  
“Then stay and get sober here.” It comes out firmer than Frank would have liked but he can’t help it, withdrawal has made him irritable.  
  
Gerard bites his bottom lip and doesn’t break eye contact with Frank. It’s not a dare and it isn’t a threat, but there’s something tense and unspoken in the way Gerard is looking at him right now and Frank just can’t figure it out, his head hurts too much. Instead he says, “Don’t go out tomorrow. Stay with me,” and he hopes Gerard doesn’t mistake his tone for commanding.  
  
And Gerard blinks and looks at his nails, round and short from being bitten. He looks at Frank out of the corner of his gold eyes, from underneath his lashes and says, “Fine.”

 

\---<>\---

 

  
  
Friday, Day of Truth comes and Frank is finally well enough to move around a little, although his head still hurts like fuck and he’s still a little irritable and sometimes his stomach flips and he wants to vomit. All in all, it’s not the worst he’s ever felt.  
  
He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in a ratty hoodie, with a coffee when Gabe and Adam breeze in like nothing’s happened. Gabe in his purple hoodie, he looks around and says, “That chaise lounge is _exactly_ what I need in my apartment, Frank. You have no idea. Chicks would dig it so hard. Where’d you get it?”  
  
Frank says nothing, just drinks his coffee, black.  
  
Gabe wanders over to the _A Clockwork Orange_ poster and Adam walks over to where Gerard is stretched out on the couch smoking a cigarette and sketching on a pad. They instantly begin giggling and the sound makes Frank want to punch walls.  
  
Frank watches, glaring daggers from the counter as Adam and Gerard lean in close and, just when Adam’s about to drop a pill down Gerard’s throat, Gabe walks over to Frank and says, “So, you like living near the park, bro? ‘Cause I’m thinking of moving soon and -”  
  
It’s out of Frank’s mouth before he can stop it. “Shit, Gabe, you’re not gonna move! We go over this every fucking week - am I the _only one_ here who remembers this shit? Fuck!”  
  
Gabe is stunned into silence, eyes wide, and Adam and Gerard are just staring at him from the couch, faces pressed close together so that, from this side of the room, with the couch blocking their bodies, they could be conjoined twins. Frank marches across the room with his coffee and, before he can think, just dumps it onto Adam and it’s so hot and sudden that Adam screams like a girl and leaps off the couch. He looks at Gerard, then at Gabe, before moving, fast as he can behind Gabe.  
  
Gabe is still looking stunned and Gerard is saying, angry, “What the _fuck_ , Frank?” but Frank’s not listening to him. He’s waving his empty cup at Gabe and Adam and saying, “Get the fuck out. Don’t come back. I don’t care; we’re through.”  
  
And Gerard is up and at Frank’s side and he’s mad and saying, “Frank, you’re being an _asshole_ , those are _our friends_ ,” and Frank says, seething with anger and not thinking at all, “They’re not ‘ _our friends_ ’ and if you love them so much then you can just leave too!”  
  
And Gerard says, “Fuck you,” and goes to get his jacket from the bedroom.  
  
And Frank calls after him, from his spot in front of the couch, “If you leave, Gerard, god dammit, then just _don’t come back_! If you want to get fucked up then fine, but you can’t live here! Just go somewhere and get fucked up and be miserable and fuck Adam - ‘cause I know he wants to fuck you - but I’m tired of trying to help you, I’m done!”  
  
When Gerard rushes out of the bedroom, Frank gets just a good enough glance at his face to know he’s crying, but Frank is too mad and torn up inside to care and his headache just got a million times _worse_.  
  
Gerard leaves first, in a blur of black and white, then Adam and Gabe turn around and disappear, fast as ghosts, behind him and Frank has to sit down because his forehead is pulsating.

 

  
  
\---<>\---

 

  
  
Pete and Patrick arrive about thirty minutes later. Frank is cleaning up the mess on the sofa, skull splitting open, and he must look as fucked up as he feels because when Pete walks in he says, “What the hell happened to you?”  
  
“It’s a long story,” Frank grumbles and Patrick, ever the perceptive one, says, voice laced with concern, “Did something happen with Gerard?”  
  
Frank doesn’t answer, doesn’t even get the chance too, because Pete says, “Of course something happened with Gerard. That little gold-digger’s pissed ‘cause you won’t support his habit, isn’t he?” Pete’s face is already scrunching up in fury.  
  
“Don’t call him that,” Frank says, calming down, and his voice breaks because deep inside, he still loves Gerard, always has, always will, and the realization that Gerard has just rushed out of his life in a whirlwind of bad feelings and misplaced emotions is just starting to set in. He realizes, with a pain, how he’s just flung Gerard out into the city and doesn’t have a clue where he could begin to look for him; with Gabe’s constant need to be constantly in motion, they could be anywhere.  
  
“Fuck. You.” Pete says and he goes to light a cigarette. “I told you the first time you said you liked him he was bad news. He’s just another one of Gabe’s art school sluts that’s just there to give Gabe his stupid hipster cred and mooch off his stash and make him look more legit. Why else do you think he hangs around Gabe? It’s not for conversation, I’ll tell you.” Pete blows out smoke and looks angry.  
  
Frank is just sitting on the floor looking at Pete now, wanting to cry. He can feel the sting in his eyes already and the pressure in his throat as his face gets hot.  
  
Patrick jumps in just then. “He doesn’t mean it, Frank,” he says, ever the voice of reason, ever the calm in the storm, “He’s just moody today because the pharmacy got his prescription wrong and they won’t have his in ‘til Sunday.” Patrick has his fingers laced together like he doesn’t know what to do with them and he keeps looking back and forth between Pete and Frank.  
  
Pete just walks back to the kitchen, smoking his cigarette and says, “I mean every word,” as he digs through the fridge.


	3. Thinking Clearly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Frank remembers the first time he saw Gerard ___...Frank wakes up one day and realizes his life has spiraled wildly out of control.

  
Frank remembers the first time he saw Gerard in the club and how he thought he was the most beautiful thing ever with his kohl rimmed eyes and ivory skin. He remembers going home, breathless, smiling and giddy and not being able to wait until the next day to ask him out.  
  
He remembers his first date with Gerard and how he was so nervous, because he’d never liked someone so much, that he drank too much at the restaurant and started hiccupping halfway through the meal and couldn’t stop. Gerard, he was just as nervous because he’d never been in this part of town before - the trendy park area that was inhabited mostly by cougars and young professionals - and he felt underdressed and common and _really_ wanted an Ativan or a Xanax.

After stumbling through an awkward dinner, they’d tripped through the park together and watched the sky get dark and the moon come up and at one point, while they were watching the ducks curl up and sleep on the shore of the lake, Gerard let Frank hold his hand and Frank couldn’t help but notice how nicely their hands fit together; like pieces of a puzzle. It made his heart race the way his heart always raced when he’d walk into a bar after being dry for a week. He liked it.

Frank remembers his first kiss with Gerard and how he tasted like cigarettes and something sweet and fruity, like candy. This was on their third date, which wasn’t really much of a date at all; just the two of them wandering around some downtown all-day arts festival together. They had just finished watching some belly-dance troupe belly-dancing and the sky was blue and the air was warm and Gerard Way turned to Frank Iero and said, “Well, aren’t you gonna kiss me already?”

And Frank, well, he’d scratched his head and got embarrassed and turned red and started mumbling something and Gerard just stood there watching him with his earthy green eyes until Frank got over himself and pressed his lips against Gerard’s. Gerard, his mouth was sticky with something and his tongue was soft and warm and, right before they pulled apart, he nipped Frank’s bottom lip real quick - quicker than Frank could blink - and the sting reminded Frank of the first time he downed hard liquor. And he liked it.

Frank also remembers the first time he and Gerard made love. They were laying on the couch making out - whatever movie they’d been watching long forgotten - and Frank was just about to slip his hand under the band of Gerard’s pants when Gerard pushed him away and sat up. His hair a mess from where Gerard had been pulling at it, Frank was just about to start apologizing when Gerard reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two little candy-colored, candy-shaped pills and said, mouth red and swollen, voice nervous, hand shaking, “Y-you want one?” Gerard always stammered when he was worried about what Frank was thinking of him.

Frank, he didn’t even bother asking what it was, just plucked one up out of the soft, moist palm of Gerard’s hand and popped it, because he was a try-anything-once type of guy; he’d done shrooms in the park with Pete before, dropped LSD once with a cousin - and didn’t like it - and had taken one of Ryan Ross’ little red seconals once during a party, just to see what would happen. He’s never been much of a pill person, but he’d taken it and he’d watched Gerard eat his own little colored pill with the same sort of burning animalistic craving he got sometimes when he watched porn or was craving vodka and, when he ravished Gerard, it was quick and instant; their clothes on the floor, Frank bruising Gerard’s neck with his mouth. They ended up falling on the floor, making love at the foot of the couch, Frank pounding into Gerard for all he was worth. He got one look at Gerard’s eyes - they were hazel this time; gold and green-flecked and wide and dilated - before he came, hot and heavy.

It was probably the one of the best orgasms he’d ever had.

And afterwards they just laid tangled together on the floor, sweating and panting and staring into each other’s eyes and, even though his mind was racing a million miles a minute, somewhere, deep inside, Frank thought, could this be love?

 

\---<>\---

 

Saturday, Frank gets a call from Pete. He’s in some club downtown with the music blasting so loud he has to yell over the phone. Frank is in the kitchen making pasta - because now that he’s getting clean his body is demanding regular meals again - and it’s quiet and calm and everything that wherever Pete is, isn’t.

Frank stabs a noodle, tastes it, and says, “Yeah?”

Pete, Frank can tell he’s getting close to being drunk because his words are starting to slur, says, “Hey? Hey! Yeah, I’m at this club or wherever and - I mean I wasn’t even going to _bother_ with telling you this or whatever, but Patrick thinks you should know - that, um, yeah - your boyfriend’s out of control. I mean, I thought _Gabe_ was bad, but your boyfriend’s fucking crazy. Patrick thinks he’s gonna get thrown out; he keeps blacking out and shit and arguing with that other guy. And, like, Patrick wants to take him home or whatever, but he is _not_ staying with me, dude. ‘Cause I mean -”

The phone goes out and Frank blinks at the receiver for a minute, worried and wondering what happened with the service, before he realizes he was the one who’d hung up; he’d done it entirely without thinking.

And maybe it was just some instinctual self-preserving reflex to save him the trauma, Frank doesn’t know. He doesn’t try to know. Instead, he busies himself with cooking dinner, throws himself into the nitty-gritty details of it all and even sets the table the way they taught him in private school, just to fill his mind enough so that he doesn’t think of Gerard. Frank’s still not used to all this clear thinking. He’s not used to all this extra space in his mind that he has now that he isn’t a druggy.

Right now, Frank _really_ wants a vodka and tonic or a hit of cocaine and that scares him, so he just ends up making a salad and dessert instead.

 

\---<>\---

 

Monday morning Pete and Patrick come over to check on Frank and give him the Talk. Well, Patrick comes to talk and Pete just comes to help eat all the excess food from Frank’s anxiety-fueled cooking fit on Saturday.

Pete rifles through the kitchen and Frank and Patrick go to sit in the living room. Frank wonders if Patrick ever envies Pete’s ability to eat everything and stay model-thin, while Patrick only has to eat an apple to gain seven pounds - he can’t help it, with all this new space in his mind, he wonders about everything now.

Patrick’s wearing his gray suit because he has a job - he works at some record company - and has to be there after he visits Frank. Patrick is unique in that, unlike a lot of people dancing in Frank’s social circle, Patrick actually has goals and dreams and doesn’t drink to excess or pop pills or take acid or snort cocaine or shoot heroine. He went to public school, went to college on a scholarship, and got a job because he works hard and actually gives a shit and has talent. Before he moved in with Pete, Patrick was living in a modest-sized apartment, in a nice, quiet neighborhood that he paid for with his job at the record company. On the weekends he went to shows or jazz clubs or worked on his own music. Sometimes he’d go club hopping, but that was only when the mood struck him. He didn’t - and doesn’t - lay around like a lot of Frank’s friends, living off his trust fund and worrying about chaise lounges and planning on, but never actually moving out of one swanky, expensive neighborhood and into another. He’s not spoiled and bored with life or running away from demons. Frank realizes then, after utilizing his new, clear thinking thought process, that, one day, he wants to be just like Patrick.

Patrick’s straw-blonde hair is thick and neat, he’s got his glasses on and the ball cap he hates to live without when he says, “So, Frank, how’ve you been holding up?”

Frank wants to light a cigarette right now - smoking is the one bad habit he’s keeping, at least for now - but doesn’t because Patrick’s not smoking and he feels like if he lit up now he would just look trashy and cheap. Instead, Frank says, “Good enough. My head doesn’t hurt _as_ much and I’ve been eating regularly again.”

“That’s so good, Frank,” Patrick says, excited, “I was worried about you but -” and this is where part one of the Talk comes in “- are you sure you don’t want to check into a rehab? At least for a few weeks? Coming off is one thing, staying off is another and I mean -” and this is part two of the Talk “- it’s gonna be a lot harder for you to stay sober with Gerard, you know, not.”

Patrick hasn’t really figured out what Frank and Gerard are right now - on break or breaking up - and so he doesn’t really know how to broach the topic. He watches Frank’s face for any sign that he’s stepping on his toes and, when Frank’s expression doesn’t change - except for a slight twitch of the mouth which Patrick may or may not have seen - he goes on.

“I think you should go, at least for a week or two. I asked one of the secretaries at my job and she told me about this place -” Patrick digs in his blazer pocket for the pamphlet “- and I think you’ll like it.” Frank takes it and looks at it the way awkward nerdy kids look at pamphlets of sports camp. “It’s away from the city, but it’s still in-state so you won’t be too far from home and me and Pete can come visit you on weekends.” Frank looks at pictures of smiling counselors and clean rooms and feels homesick already. “And it’s on the beach,” Patrick says brightly.

Frank puts on a smile for Patrick and says he’ll think about. Somewhere in the kitchen, he can hear Pete belch.

Patrick makes a face that looks something like disgust and something like affection and then says, quietly, so Pete can’t hear, “So, um. What _are_ you going to do about Gerard?”

Frank shrugs. Thinking about Gerard makes him feel sad and empty now and so he tries not to think about him at all. He cooks instead and cleans - his whole apartment is slowly becoming spotless - and reads all the books he’s been meaning to read for the past twenty-one months; he’s done the math and that’s how long it’s been since he met Gerard. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. Patrick is quiet. “It’s just. I mean; I love him, Patrick, I really do. I’ve never loved anyone more and I miss him so bad already, but…”

“But you can be around him,” Patrick finishes, “and that’s perfectly fine.”

Frank suddenly wants to cry - he find himself wanting to cry a lot lately - and he’s ready for Pete and Patrick to leave, but these are probably the best friends he has right now so he just waves the pamphlet and says, “I’ll think about this, okay? Really, I will.” And then they talk about Frank’s _A Clockwork Orange_ poster and the book, _1984_ and other dystopian novels and Frank notices, for the first time maybe, how really smart Patrick is and that just makes him want to be like him even more.

When they leave - Patrick has to go to work and Pete has to make an appearance at one of his dad’s board meetings - Frank feels alone and lonely and, against his will, misses Gerard.

 

\---<>\---

 

On Tuesday, Frank makes a huge breakfast, eats part of it, and thinks about Gerard. It’s early and his defenses are down and his thoughts just kind of drift naturally toward his favorite subject in the world.

Frank thinks about Gerard and the first time he said “I love you.”

They’d been dating for a while - about two months - and summer was reaching the finish line and going out with a bang, making the days hot and long and the afternoons humid and golden. Frank had been meaning to say it for a while - practically since the first day they met - but the time never seemed right until, one hot sultry afternoon, Frank looked over at Gerard sweating next to him on the balcony and it just came out.

They were watching the day end. It was Thursday and Gerard wasn't living with Frank then, so he didn't know about Gerard’s demons, the hidden ones he only talked about on Thursday nights when he was anxious for his Friday night fix. Gabe had invited them to hang out on Friday. Frank was noticing that Gabe liked to hang out with them a lot on Fridays; they’d go to shows and clubs and bars and take shots on the beach and share joints. This was before they started spending whole weekends with Gabe, before Frank started doing lines of cocaine next to Gerard, before he knew how bad Gerard could get.

It was Thursday, and Frank looked at Gerard sitting in the patio chair across from him, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from the sun. He was nursing an ice coffee and looking down at the street - Frank’s apartment is only three stories up - and Frank felt his heart melt and swell in his chest and, when he opened his mouth to sip his coffee, he said, “I love you,” and it surprised even Frank because he’d never thought he’d spit it out.

Gerard had looked at Frank and laughed nervously and blushed bright sunset-red. Later, when it was time for Gerard to go back home to his one-room apartment downtown, he’d kissed Frank very softly on the lips and said, “I love you too,” before getting on his bus to go home.

Frank had stood on the bus stop and watched Gerard’s bus round the corner with his heart fluttering fast in his chest and the biggest goofiest smile plastered on his face. Involuntarily, he’d put his hand to his heart like some type of lovesick school girl and walked back to his apartment in a daze sweeter than any high he’d ever been on, dreaming of their future together.

When Frank comes out of his reverie, his eggs are cold and his coffee is too bitter and he realizes that he’s been poking his vegan bacon with a fork for five minutes and that, once again, he’s made too much food.

 

\---<>\---

 

Wednesday, around noon, Frank goes to the park to sit and read, people watch and breathe fresh air. Even though spring has just come, for the past couple weeks it’s been really nice out during the day; clear sunshine shining on everything, very mild breezes. All throughout the park, the air smells like baby leaves and clean mist.

It’s only when Frank parks himself under a tree with his book and his coffee that he realizes this is the first Wednesday in what feels like forever that he hasn't spent with Gerard. It’s like a wet blanket has been thrown over him all of a sudden; cold and heavy and suffocating. He looks at the spot next to him and imagines all the times Gerard’s sat next to him in this park, under this tree, reading a book or staring into space or, more often, sketching out drawings. He can just picture Gerard sitting next to him, so close their shoulders touch and they can hear each other breathing. He can just see Gerard’s shaggy black hair, dirty tennis shoes. The sun’s out, so his eyes would be a vivid green. Frank wonders what they would be talking about, if they would even be talking about anything at all; they spent so much time together that, sometimes, conversation wasn't even required. Sometimes, they’d just lean on each other with their matched breathing and didn't even worry about what the other was thinking because they already knew.

Frank sighs. He misses Gerard. He misses him more than anything. More than his mom, more than the father he rarely sees, more than drinking and cocaine combined. It’s like he’s missing a piece of himself, like Gerard was a limb that got amputated and he can still feel himself moving the fingers, bending the elbow, only when he goes to rub his arm, there’s nothing there and the realization of this absence is more bitter than the absence itself.

He wonders where he is and what he’s thinking and if he’ll ever come back. He hopes he’s dry and warm and safe. More than anything, he hopes he’s not dead. He remembers his first conversation with Gerard. It was in the club, on the night they’d met. They’d talked about George Romero. He can’t remember why - even though he probably could if he tried, but he doesn't want to.

Frank takes a deep breath, picks up his book, and tries to get lost in the words.

 

\---<>\---

 

Thursday night, Frank wakes up around one-AM and can’t go back to sleep. It’s dark and quiet and still and Frank, Frank’s just not used to that. He’s used to Gerard tossing and turning, then sitting up and talking until sunrise. He’s used to a warm body next to him, but the space where Gerard would be is cool, that side of the bed still perfectly made up from this morning when Frank was obsessively straightening out the sheets, as if by organizing everything he could somehow make his life make sense.

Right now, Frank’s never felt more lonely, so he grabs his lighter and cigarettes and goes out onto the balcony in a hoodie and allows himself to think about Gerard and the day he asked him to move in.

It was cold; autumn had come in damp and chilly. Gerard was brushing his teeth in the bathroom with the door open and Frank was in bed smoking a cigarette and watching him, the way he always used to watch him back when things were different.

He’d said, “You should move in with me,” in that sudden, out-of-the-blue way he has sometimes. Gerard had looked at him through the mirror and said, “Are you sure you won’t get tired of me?”

And Frank had blown out a stream of smoke and said, “Positive. You stay here all the time anyway. It’ll be fun. Like being married.”

“Since when has anyone ever referred to marriage as ‘fun’.”

Frank had looked at the ceiling and contemplated this. “You’re right. All of my friends’ parents are divorced or hate each other and mine live on opposite sides of the state. Still, I think it could be fun if you made it. I just don’t believe anyone tries hard enough anymore.” Frank tried and failed to blow a smoke ring. “I think we could do it, though.”

He could hear water running in the sink and Gerard laughing in that coquettish way he had sometimes. “Frank Iero, are you asking to marry me?” he’d said, voice pitched and exaggerated, trying hard not to laugh.

Frank had smiled to himself and said, “Not yet.”

On the balcony, in the chilly night air with just the streetlights and the moon illuminating the darkness, Frank thinks about how ironic it is that he’d spent all that time trying to reel Gerard in, bring him close, only to cast him back out into the city. He’d found his soul mate and, no, maybe it’s not better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, because the only thing Frank feels right now is pain; the dull headache that’s been with him all week and the gaping, throbbing wound in his heart.

What sucks is that Frank doesn’t have any coping mechanisms right now. He can’t clean the apartment, because there is nothing to clean. He _could_ cook something, but he’s getting low on groceries and besides, his refrigerator is full of leftovers and he’s not even hungry.

So he decides to take a walk instead, clear his mind. He’s heard that works, though he’s never tried it. Back in high school, he’d buy a joint from Bob Bryar if he needed to relax and punch the brick wall of his mother’s house until his knuckles bled, if he was angry enough. In college, he learned to drink his problems out, but he can’t do that now.

He goes to his room, pulls on jeans, and heads out into the night. Outside, the neighborhood’s quiet and sleeping, all the lights in all the windows turned off. He knows if he goes left he’ll just be wandering through more of the residential area and that he’ll get suspicious looks from every cop and insomniac looking out his window he passes, because this just isn’t the neighborhood for that type of nonsense, so he goes right instead, towards the shops and bars and restaurants.

His hands in his pockets, he gets to the main drag of the commercial area everything’s closed except the bars. Frank feels his blood rush and as he walks slowly past the signs, he feels his heart beat and his lungs take in air. The past two weeks, he’s mostly confined himself to the apartment – partially because he’s still not feeling one-hundred percent, but mostly because if Gerard ever turns back up, he wants to be there – and this is the first time he’s been on Trade Street since he quit everything.

It’s unreal, all the neon signs glowing pink and red and green; the yellow streetlights lighting up the sidewalk; the couples stumbling, laughing up the street and the groups of people sitting outside the bars on patio furniture, drinking and laughing, smoking hookahs and talking. Two weeks wasting away in his apartment and the whole world was just going on without him.

He wonders, for a moment, if Gerard’s out there right now doing the same thing; drinking outside bars with Gabe and Adam or stumbling up the block, laughing and oblivious. He gets the crazy notion all of a sudden that maybe Gerard’s somewhere on Trade Street in one of the bars and that he might run in to him. There’s a mad moment where Frank’s walking down the street, looking all over, and every black-haired boy and pale, hazel-eyed girl looks like Gerard.

Frank ends up standing in the open doorway of some bar when he calms down and realizes that there’s no way Gerard would be over here. The park area is too tame for Gabe and his tastes, too casual. It’s the type of place you go to make memories, not the type of place to go to forget. Inside, the bar is all orange light and laughter, warmth and noise. It smells like beer and bar food and, yeah, maybe it’s a bad idea, but Frank goes in anyway.

He sits at the bar like a robber in line at a bank and the bartender comes over and asks him what he wants to drink. There’s one painful moment where Frank has to fight himself to keep from asking for bourbon on the rocks. He orders cranberry juice instead and the bartender slides it to him, no questions asked.

Franks hands are shaking and when his sips the cranberry juice, there’s no sting of alcohol present. He looks around the bar. No one is nearly as torn up as he, not even the drunks starring into their beers. He pays for his drink and, when he gets up to go, this girl in a silver dress grabs him by the arm and says, “Dance with me!”

Frank awkwardly holds her by the waist as they just kind of sway to some slow pop song pouring out of the speakers. She says, “My names Amber,” and Frank says, “Yeah.”

She looks at him with big brown eyes and says, “What’s your name?”

“Frank.”

The song lasts for years and, when the pull apart, this girl, Amber, she says, hands still on Frank’s shoulders, “Want my number?”

Frank just smiles at her, takes her hands away and says, “I’m sorry,” and then leaves as fast as he can because he feels like the walls are closing in on him.

Instead of backtracking to his apartment, he walks around the block – just in case, you know, Gerard is somewhere nearby – and he drops into a little convenience store before heading home – one of those little, 24-hour stores that sells everything.

He buys milk, because he doesn’t have any, and bread, because he’s used all that up too. He picks up some orange juice too and stands, transfixed and starring at all the liquor lined up in the refrigerated section, the light inside making the bottles and cans glow. He tears himself away though and goes to stand in line. The guy in front of Frank is already drunk and can’t find his credit card and doesn’t have enough cash for everything, so he ditches some things, pays, and stumbles out into the night. 

When Frank gets up to the counter there’s a tall, clear bottle of Absolut standing calm and aloof next to the pieces of penny-gum. Frank eyes it as the guy rings up his stuff and, just as he’s about to hand the guy his debit card, he says, nodding his head towards the bottle, “Yeah, and I’ll take that too.”

 

\---<>\---

 

Friday morning, Frank’s eyes are sore and he’s got a headache again, a big one. Also, there’s a big gash in his hand that’s still bleeding a little. When he walks into the kitchen from the living room floor where he woke up, there’s glass and blood on the floor and dried red hand-prints on the counter and a nearly empty bottle of Absolut in the sink. He surveys the mess with squinted eyes – because his head hurts _that_ much – and then sighs, sits at the table, and covers his face with his undamaged hand and feels varying degrees lost and hopeless and disappointed and sad and angry until Pete and Patrick show up.

\---<>\---

 

When Pete and Patrick show up, there’s none of the flurry of excitement that usually comes with their arrival. Pete walks in, mouth open to give a loud greeting, surveys the mess, closes his mouth and looks at Frank. When Patrick comes in, he sighs, unsurprised and unfazed, puts his hands on his hips for a brief second before coming over to Frank and lifting his chin with two fingers. He says, “Oh, Frank,” exactly the way his mother would when she’d come back from work after a long day, open up a wine bottle, and tell Frank, the only one who really listened to her, about her disappointments and long day.

Frank doesn’t look at Patrick, doesn’t want to see whatever is in Patrick’s eyes right now. He doesn’t look at Pete either, who’s standing silent and aloof at the edge of the kitchen, near the refrigerator. It’s only when Patrick’s done picking out invisible shards of glass from his palm and peroxiding and bandaging him up that he realizes he’s crying; one big teardrop plopping onto the table after another. And all these weeks of wanting to cry, this is the first time he’s done it.

Frank is silent the whole morning, silent and motionless at the kitchen table as Patrick packs him a bag and grabs his toothbrush. The whole time, he’s silent and not looking at Pete who’s still looming in the corner of the kitchen like he just doesn’t know what to do with himself.

When it’s time to go, Pete walks close as he can to Frank, the way Gerard always did and it makes Frank want to slap him. In the car, he sits in the back next to Frank and lays his head on Frank’s shoulder like he’s the one heartbroken and relapsing, not Frank.

 

\---<>\---

 

Pete’s condo in midtown is massive, taking up most of the seventeenth floor with its four bedrooms, two and a half baths, and sprawling open floor plan connecting the living room to the dining room to the kitchen. It makes Gabe’s condo look like a bedroom and Frank’s apartment look like a closet.

Pete comes from old money; his family has stocks in everything and owns, like, four companies. Pete’s condo in midtown was his grandfather’s - and before that, his great-grandfather's - but now Pete’s grandfather lives on some Floridian estate and so Pete lives there now with Patrick. On the wall in the living room, right above the faux fireplace is a large portrait of Pete’s great-grandfather, which, Frank always imagined, is exactly what Pete will look like when he gets old.

They set Frank up in one of the guest bedrooms - they use the third bedroom as an office - and leave him to have his thoughts to himself. Frank lays on his back on the bed and stares up at the smoothness of the ceiling. He stays that way for a long time and, deep inside, he’s already accepted what he has to do, the same way he accepted the truth - could it really be only - three weeks ago.

When he rolls off the bed and wanders, slowly, into the living room hours later, the TV’s on and Patrick is reading a book through his glasses with Pete lying sprawled out and miserable across his lap. He’s just laying on his side, staring into the nothingness just above the TV set.

Patrick looks up at him when he hears him come in, adjusts his thick-framed glasses, says, “Hey, Frank,” like nothings happened.  
  
Frank, his head hurts and he’s never been one for beating around the bush when there’s something to say, so he just comes out with it. He says, “Patrick. I’m going to check myself in.” Pete moves a little on the couch, but doesn’t look at Frank. “Can you drive me there tomorrow?”

Patrick says, excitement evident in his voice although he tries hard to keep his expression somber, “Yes, yes, of course.”

Frank sighs, “I’ll give you the keys to my apartment. Just, if -”

Patrick cuts him off, “We’ll take care of _everything."_

 

\---<>\---

 

Saturday morning is bright and blue when Frank, sighing and exhausted, gets into Patrick’s car. The sun is shining and Frank can feel Pete Wentz looking at them somberly from seventeen stories up. There’s no clouds in the sky and Patrick says, almost too excited, “Well, Frankie, let’s get a move,” and the last thing Frank sees before they hit the highway is this little restaurant he and Gerard liked to eat at sometimes and it’s everything he can do to keep from flinging himself out the car.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this in LiveJournal (under the same username), but I accidentally abandoned it (due to school and the usual hustle and bustle of life). Now, I intend to finally finish it XD


End file.
